


The mirror cracked from side to side

by Anonymous



Category: La Passe-Miroir | The Mirror Visitor - Christelle Dabos
Genre: F/M, PWP, after tome 3, before tome 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21855661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Moments of respite were never abundant for someone like him. Even as a child he had learned to accept them, then let them go, and not to anticipate them.3rd person, Thorn POV
Relationships: Ophélie/Thorn
Comments: 11
Kudos: 160
Collections: Anonymous





	The mirror cracked from side to side

**Author's Note:**

> I have just finished reading Tome 4 and felt the need to write something for these two... I'm still a little depressed the story is over hahaha I'm gonna miss them so much!

Moments of respite were never abundant for someone like him. Even as a child he had learned to accept them, then let them go, and not to anticipate them. 

Just one more thing Ophelia had disrupted by coming into his life.

The rarity of such moments now leave him hungry and wanting. As if he lives for them, anticipating the next time he will see his wife - his_ wife _ \- and hear, and taste, and touch, like the starving man he never knew he was. 

The intensity of his thoughts burn the inside of his mind. Now, he is burning on the outside as well - every touch of her fingers, skilled as no other part of her is thanks to the years dedicated to reading, leaves behind a trail of fire on his skin, his body like scorched land - and that rare state of symmetry between what’s inside and what’s outside is such a relief he could cry. Maybe he does. He can’t think straight when he’s right there, in her arms, when nails scratch his back with a tenderness he could never have imagined - none of it. Growing up in the Pole he had known, rationally, that these things - nails, hands, arms and legs and mouth and words - had uses other than enduring and hurting. But only now did he truly understand it.

His thoughts are jumbled. That was not the plan, either: the plan was to use all his focus to memorize her reactions, to count the minutes and seconds down with precision, to master their lovemaking to her utmost enjoyment. To be the husband she deserved, at least in this. To appreciate her, and hopefully make himself appreciated as well. It was pitiful how desperately he wanted to be wanted, but he was nothing if obstinate. Yet all his best laid plans always end up upside down once she makes her appearance, and now his thoughts are jumbled. Her mouth is on his neck and he doesn’t want to think. His hand is planted firmly on her soft thigh, his mouth on her breast, and he doesn’t want to think. His fingers work inside her, and she moans against his skin, and he never wants to think again. Before, he could smell the Babelian night air and hear the far away sounds of Babelian life - now all his senses are overtaken with her. How exquisite, to not think and just be. When he enters her and her mouth hangs open, he dips his head for a kiss, and she accepts him whole, and he doesn’t know who’s in tandem with whom. When he finally pulls back to breathe he's surprised by the look in her eyes - a sudden reflection that startles him out of the steadiness of his movements. Desperately, he bends down and kisses her eyelids close: he knows it is a good choice as she sighs, hooks her legs around him, brings arms around his neck. For all the intolerable touches he dreads suffering, there is one he will greedily accept, without guilt and without fear. His hands are everywhere, her mouth is covering him with kisses. His tongue searches for hers. Their bodies move together on their own, and he thinks of perpetual motion.

Not even time is allowed to run its normal course under Ophelia’s influence. Torn between impatient craving and the irrational desire to stretch this moment forever, Thorn is surprised when the light of the sun creeps into their bedroom: time ran like a fast-paced beast as they made love throughout the night. Exhausted as he is, he has not had enough. Laying next to him, she opens her eyes slowly, breathing raggedly, and he worries for a moment that he might have crossed the line. Had he been too greedy? He is already reviewing the precious memories of the night that has just ended, when her eyes catches his and she smiles.

She _smiles_ at him. Thorn can feel the blood rushing to his head. After making love to his wife, he can feel himself blushing just because she smiled. Despite his tiredness, he wants to rouse himself and touch again, and he wants to look away out of embarrassment for all these violent feelings suffocating his ability to think - the only thing he was ever good for, he has been repeatedly reminded. But he can’t look away. The pink light of dawn catches the beloved face, and he can see himself reflected in her unclouded eyes. Facing his reflection is unpleasant enough, but the mirror of her gaze shows a better version of him: in it there is love, and longing, and admiration, even. He averts his eyes, shaken by the swelling wave of emotion that threatens to overtake him.

Her hand caresses his hair. He takes deep breaths and turns to look at her again, but she speaks before he does.

“It’s morning already, I know.”

“You did not get enough sleep.”

She blushes.

“I can sleep in,” she teases, “you, on the other hand, cannot... Sir Henry.” The light illuminates the grin on her face, for once free of worry, her twinkling eyes, her mass of dark curls. He needs her. He loves her. He loves her desperately .

“Ophelia. I love you.”

She blushes harder and Thorn extends his arms, pulling her closer and placing a kiss on her head. A novelty for him, moving on impulse, with not a thought for his claws or anything else, but he is calm and his thought process is still not fully back in motion. Not yet, not yet.

A bewildering notion: he thinks he can be at peace, maybe. He thinks in his arms he has everything he ever wanted. A little more than that, even. He can learn to accept what he has, and to let it go when he must, and to not anticipate more. But then he hears these words that shatter the self-control life has so carefully beaten into him, his image of himself: the automaton in the memorial, the ugly, scarred beast, the friendless intendant. Loveless, bastard, unwanted.

“I love you too, Thorn”.


End file.
